


No one ever thinks about the cabbie

by Stellabella13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-08
Updated: 2015-12-08
Packaged: 2018-05-05 15:56:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5381159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stellabella13/pseuds/Stellabella13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Mrs.Hudson are heading to visit Sherlock's grave, completely unaware of who the Cabbie really is.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No one ever thinks about the cabbie

**Author's Note:**

> Alright so, this was inspired by something I saw on pinterest, and I hope you enjoy it!

_He was gone._

 

Gone and it hurt. Oh how it hurt. It hurt to move, hurt to eat, hurt to think, hurt to  _live._ All because he was gone. It felt as if a part of his heart had been carved out with a knife, a very blunt and rusty knife, so the cut wasn't clean. It was jagged and refused to heal, no matter how many times he sat at the pub. Clinking bottles had become a norm. It didn't help him forget, never helped him forget, but it made his mind go fuzzy and warm, so that he couldn't truly think straight. He loved that feeling. Being drunk helped him cope, but the mornings after made him regret ever touching his lip to the burning liquid. Not only then did his head thump and his stomach hurl, but the feeling of heartbreak made everything so much worst. 

 

He would beg and beg for god to take away the ache in his chest, to mend his broken mind, and sometimes the pain would vanish. But it would leave him feeling empty, a soul trapped in a capsule sitting on the cold wooden floor staring at the blank walls.

 

He had decided that he preferred the pain over the empty floating, for the emptiness brought him nothing but wishes to scramble for the key that kept him between him and his gun; which he had locked away after the day he saw the blue eyed man lying on the concrete. 

 

His shoulders shuddered as he snapped his head away from the drawer and pulled himself from the floor, dragging his feet into the kitchen to make a much needed cup of tea. He was lost in a haze, and only noticed he had pulled down two mugs from the cupboards after he had filled both to the rim with steaming water. His breath clogged his throat as his cheeks damped considerable, and he fled from the kitchen, unable to handle anything at that moment.

 

They were all worried about him, but he didn't see why they were. He would never harm himself. He knew _he_ wouldn't have wanted him to. He was going to stay strong for his best mate. 

 

Tears where flowing freely as he collapsed onto the moth eaten couch in the apartment he had hired weeks after the lad's death. He had no mind of returning to Baker Street. He couldn't. Not yet. Not any time soon. He wiped his eyes and took a shuddered breath, tugging at his hair in frustration. 

 

Why could he not just get over it? Why? Why did it have to hurt t much that he could barley function? He just couldn't believe it. The world's greatest observer, one of the best detectives, one of the best men he knew, was dead. He shouldn't be. It didn't make sense. After all he had been through, all he had survived, why would he just die? 

 

He was now full on sobbing, shoulders shaking and chest heaving, head coming to rest between his knees. Then, so soft he could barley hear it over his own whimpers, came a gentle tap at his door. He forced himself to go answer, nearly unable to even find the strength to pull on the door nob.

 

"Oh John." Mrs.Hudson whispered, reaching up an old wrinkled hand to stroke his cheek. John blinked hard, trying to stop the tears as he leaned into her touch. She was there to take him to the cemetery. He had been several times before, and this time the two decided to go together. She was clutching a small bundle of lilies in her free arm, which made John feel light headed.

 

He let her get his phone for him and lock up his flat, then taking his hand and leading him to the busy streets. John hissed at the sharp unwelcome sounds, and the grip in his hand tightened. Almost straight away, a cab stopped before them. If John had not been the emotional mess he was, he would have wondered why a cab had stopped as soon as they stepped out, as Mrs.Hudson hadn't even raised her hand to call for one. He didn't notice however, and let her tug him into the back seat. 

 

He didn't hear the driver's breathing hitch, or the slight tremor in the cabbies voice when he spoke. Mrs.Hudson spoke the address, and the cab zoomed down the street. None of the two passengers realized that the cab was going even slower then a cab normally would. John had closed his eyes, focusing on breathing through his nose so that he would not break down again. He couldn't. Not in front of a stranger.  

 

His nails dug into his palm, creating little indents and his teeth nibbled at his bottom lip harshly. He was shivering, even inside his thick coat, for he was thin. Extremely thin. It was only when others came over that he ate, for the forced him too. It made him feel sick. Tea kept him up at night, but he hardly cared. He looked dreadful, he knew; with a pale face and thick dark bags decorating the skin beneath his slightly swollen red eyes. 

 

He felt when the cab came to a stop, and he fumbled with his seat belt, teeth chattering as the door opened to the chilling winds. He wished he was anywhere but here, alone, under a blanket, perhaps at the pub, or even lost in his own dangerous mind, but that didn't stop him from practically sprinting as fast as his weak body could take him and falling to his knees, sobbing once again in front of his friends tomb stone. 

 

***

 

It was heart wrenching, the cab driver thought, to see the blonde collapse by the stone and wrap his arms around it, tears flowing down pale cheeks and wetting the lilies the woman had just put there. The old woman had tried to pay, and he had tried to refuse, but she had shoved the notes into his hands. As she had been climbing out, however, he had reached over and tucked the money she had given him back into her pocket, unable to take it. He himself now felt his throat tighten as she put a hand to the shorter man's shoulder. 

 

It was not supposed to be that hard. But then again, he hadn't expected it to hurt this bad. He wasn't suppose to feel. Feelings where weak, yet here he was, gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands.

 

He glanced out the window once last time before he adjusted the hat over his dark curls, blue eyes gleaming with relief at seeing his loved ones still safe.

 

"I'm so sorry John." He whispered, and Sherlock Holmes pulled the cab into reverse, backing down the gravel road and onto main, speeding away and around the corner, out of sight. 

 

 

 

 

_"No one ever thinks about the cabbie. You're just the back of a head."_

_-Sherlock Holmes_

**Author's Note:**

> I think I just hurt myself. God I'm an idiot.


End file.
